The Dance
by Rose7
Summary: The Hawke sisters were laughing like schoolgirls. It was a village dance, they'd said, one they'd done in Lothering. Female Hawke/Fenris oneshot.


The ale was off tonight. Fenris could tell that much. The Hanged Man wasn't exactly known for its fine spirits, but he had spent enough evenings here by now to know the bitter, almost cloying taste of the house special.

Watered down, perhaps. Like so many things in Kirkwall. But then, at least for the Ferelden refugees that crowded the tavern tonight, scarcity was a fact of life. They had lost their homes, their families, their lives. The urge to dance couldn't be far behind.

It would be a shame, were that true. The Hawke sisters were laughing like schoolgirls. Bethany's face flushed as the mage spun her around. Marian's face-

The human she had chosen could barely keep up with her. It was a village dance, they'd said, one they'd done in Lothering. If the Marchers in the Hanged Man preferred something more nationalistic, they kept it to themselves. The musicians seemed happy enough to play. Perhaps Varric and the light clink to his coin purse had something to do with that.

It was Anders' turn with Marian. He released one sister's hand and took the other's without missing a step. His arm closed around her waist. Fenris' fingers closed around his drink.

What was the mage doing here, anyway? Didn't he have a job to do? A clinic in Darktown, full of the sick and dying waiting for his supposedly legendary skills? Wasn't that clinic the only reason they hadn't reported him to the templars? And if he wasn't going to spend his time there, what was stopping Fenris from setting his drink down and dragging the man to the Gallows by that ridiculous blonde rat tail-

"Easy there, love," Isabela said. "By the looks of it, that drink isn't going to escape."

She had sidled up next to him. Hadn't she just been halfway across the room? Fenris hated when she did that.

"I'm not sharing, if that's what you're after," he replied, taking another sip.

Isabela laughed. "Don't worry. I've seen what those hands of yours can do."

She leaned back, resting her elbows against the bar, watching Anders and Marian dance. "I wonder how many fools in Lothering thought these two the town beauties."

Any man who saw them, Fenris imagined. "I suppose you think you're better?"

That coy smile again. "I know it. And you could know it too, if you'd pull the mace out of your ass."

"I think I prefer it to whatever you might put there."

Isabela laughed again. "That's why I like you, Fenris. You're honest." Her eyebrows lifted, and she stared pointedly at him. "With everyone but yourself, that is."

Honest. Was that what he was? Often it felt like nothing more than bitterness. Often Fenris wondered if it would always be so.

"Is this the 'stop moping' talk, or the 'bend me over a table' talk?" he murmured, watching the dark hair of the Hawke sisters bounce and sway as they moved.

"Either would do you some good," Isabela shot back. "I don't think I'm the one you'd like to be bending over a table, though."

A table, no. A warm fire, perhaps. The last of the Agreggio Pavali. A strand of that raven-colored hair around his fingers. And her laughter, like cool raindrops on his face.

"You have me there," Fenris replied. "I would prefer a road less traveled. Less than the highway, at any rate."

Isabela grinned.

"How many men do you suppose have traveled that road?" she said, jutting her chin at Marian Hawke. "Anders certainly seems to know his way around."

As if by-grimace-magic, Fenris found himself studying the mage's hands. Did they look at home, around that slender waist? Or merely like they wanted to be?

His scoff did not come out as flippant as he'd hoped. "Hawke has more sense than that."

"I, for one, would be happy to lose my wits over that man," Isabela commented, as if she hadn't heard him. "Blonde hair, blue eyes, just enough muscle in those arms-"

"And a demon beneath his skin," Fenris interrupted. He lifted an eyebrow at the pirate wench. "Not that matters beyond the flesh have ever concerned you."

Isabela rolled her eyes. "Why should they? So I can sit in a corner, mooning over a woman like you?"

"I do not moon-"

The dancers were whirling now, around and around the cramped tavern floor. The mage swung Marian within Fenris' reach. A cool breeze fluttered the white hair against his brow when she passed.

"I don't understand you," Isabela continued impatiently. "You don't think twice about calling me a whore or tearing a man's heart out with your bare hands. But you piss all over yourself at the thought of telling a woman you'd like to shag her?"

"Perhaps we should return to the 'bending you over a table' conversation," Fenris muttered.

Isabela chuckled. "Much as I would enjoy that, love, I can see your heart's not in it." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "Ask her to dance."

"She is already dancing." With the mage. A Ferelden like her. A man who had never had to call anyone master.

"You don't miss a thing, do you?" the pirate wench deadpanned. "Interrupt. Push that bloody mage to the floor and stake your claim."

"She is not mine to claim."

Isabela scoffed, folding her arms over her ample chest and leaning back against the wall. "Not at this rate."

The song ended. Those who were still sober gave some scattered applause. The Hawke sisters clapped the loudest, their cheeks a matching shade of red. The mage leaned in to whisper something in Marian's ear as the musicians began to play again.

Well, the mage might fool the others, but not Fenris. And he would be there, with his sword, when the man's weakness was finally exposed. He could only hope that time would come soon. Outside the Hanged Man after last call, for instance-

Another arm bumped up against his. Marian-Hawke-was standing next to him, leaning over the bar.

"One ale," she called out breathlessly to the barkeep, turning back around and resting her elbows on the bar.

"Fenris," she murmured, giving him a smile. Face flushed and eyes sparkling. A sharp pang behind Fenris' ribs.

"Hawke," he replied, lifting his glass. "You're missing the dance."

"Bethany wants to do the Serrok," Marian explained, reaching back for the ale she'd ordered. "My partner's from Amaranthine and doesn't know it."

"A pity."

From the look on her face, however, she'd taken his tone entirely the wrong way. "You don't like dancing?"

"I do not dislike it," Fenris replied. The look did not improve.

"I've recently begun to appreciate it more," he added quickly. "The dance they do in Lothering seems quite...spirited."

Finally the look vanished, replaced with a smile. "Bethany's better at it than I am. There was never much else to do in a small town."

"You're in Kirkwall now," Fenris pointed out. "And still dancing."

"Not anymore," Marian said, sighing. "Not without a partner."

That pang again. Deeper than his ribs now, somewhere in the center of his chest. "I see many potentials in this room. Unless sobriety is a requirement."

Marian laughed. "It helps."

The inch of space between their arms closed, and her skin brushed his. "Would you dance with me?"

Surely these pangs weren't normal. Perhaps a side effect of the lyrium branding. When Danarius returned, before Fenris ripped his heart from his chest, he would have to ask.

"It may surprise you to learn they do not teach Ferelden dances to slaves in the Tevinter Imperium either," he replied, avoiding the smirk on Isabela's face.

"My last partner wasn't willing to learn," Marian said. "I think you're a braver man."

Brave. Was that what he was? His actions seemed necessary, nothing more. Certainly nothing that would attract the notice of this dark-haired beauty with a lightning-fast bow.

"I fear you've misjudged me," Fenris finally said. "My bravery does not extend beyond the risk of the house ale."

Marian laughed again. "Doesn't it?"

She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers slid across the lines of his palm as if she knew them by heart.

"Come," she said, smiling. "Dance."

If she had been any other woman, his answer would have already come and gone. Instead, there was only the thought of a warm fire. The last of the house ale. That raven-colored hair, falling over their shoulders. And her laughter, like cool raindrops on his face.

Perhaps it was a mistake. But Fenris downed what remained of his drink all the same, and followed her out onto the floor.

It was difficult to read the faces Bethany Hawke made at her sister as they approached. It was not difficult to read the mage standing across from her.

"You?" He scoffed. "Really?"

"No," Fenris replied, taking his place across from Marian. "You're dreaming."

Anders snorted, shaking his head. "I certainly hope so."

Dancing with mages. The places this woman would lead him.


End file.
